


Nach Kabarett

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Cabaret (1972)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-23
Updated: 2008-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-25 05:46:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1634744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Story by ihavecake</p><p>The Emcee, after the Kit Kat Club.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nach Kabarett

**Author's Note:**

> Written for kenaz

 

 

  
_1\. Are You Hopeful Or Just Gullible?_

5 June 1932, Berlin

I was staring at the ceiling. I used to enjoy letting my vision drift in and out of focus, my subconscious picking out shapes and telling me my ceiling had cats and dancers painted on it. Sweeping grey stripes and patches of plaster stained with cigarette smoke that in fact meant nothing.

The bed sheets were tangled around my hips. The too-bright summer sun cast long afternoon flashes of light across my bare legs and chest. I lay in the blissful, contemplative glow of post-coital arrogance, like a cat licking its whiskers after very much getting the cream.

He stirred eventually, a sloppy grin lying crooked across his face. He slung a finely toned arm across my chest and snuggled closer into my shoulder. I smiled down at him. My perfect boy. All bite and no bark, broad muscles and not a sense of what to do with them. I brushed gentle fingertips across his brow, smoothing his blond fringe away from his eyes. I could start the _Herrenvolk_ with him.

"Don't you ever sleep?" he murmured. His voice was like burnt velvet, smooth but husky where smoking choked him. His hand slid along my side and slipped under the sheets to stroke my hip. "Don't you ever dream?"

"We are not our dreams. We are our actions," I often spoke like this with him. A foolish whim, as if he might be in awe of my years and wisdom. How insecure, that I could only be a character with him, and everyone else.

"You will see actions. A change is coming," he whispered this, a soft promise that ghosted over my ear with his hot breath. My eyes fell on the brown shirt draped over the wooden chair that sat beside my bedroom door.

My smile slipped. You can only have a blissful smile in ignorance. 

  
  


  
_2\. Terror Must Be Fought With Terror_

24 December 1935, Paris

I was staring at the mirror. Unusually for a mirror, I could see myself staring back. On almost every other occasion a mirror would show me the Master of Ceremonies. But the Depression was no time for an entertainer.

My trousers were too big around the waist and too short in the leg. They were clean, but the ill-fitting cut made them look like trash bag cast-offs. The bare strip of skin above my ankle contrasted sharply with the dark material, pale and pathetic. My shirt was stained. Once a proud and crisp white, it had been softened into an over-worn, shapeless rag. Exposure to endless acrid swirls of Gauloise smoke and spilled wine had discoloured it to a dingy yellow, the same shade as my teeth. It was still the best shirt I had. My overcoat had moths and holes. It hung in dark, drab folds from my shoulders. It made me smaller than I was. It overwhelmed me and hid me from the world. But it was warm, and it was winter. A large overcoat was not a commodity to be dismissed so out of hand.

Life couldn't always be about tailcoats and fake eyelashes. The greasepaint and precise lipstain had no place in this new world. The ashen sky outside threw pallid light into the room, highlighting the dust that streamed from my clothes as I moved. It was easy to get maudlin in those times. To feel grateful I only had to think of the club, and of the hundreds who didn't leave in time.

I took the bottle of gin from the nightstand. My reflection did the same. I tilted my head to the left. He tilted his, but to the right.

"Caught you," I accused, with a wink.

"Coward," he replied, tipping back the bottle and letting the burning liquid wash down his throat.

I choked and poured a measure into a dusty tumbler. He watched me and arched an eyebrow.

  
  


  
_3\. Meine Dame Und Mein Herr_

11 September 1939, New York

I was staring at the radio. Poland had been invaded. War had been declared on Germany. I was outraged.

There was no one to gloat to. Not an instance in which I could holler "I told you so" and draw a clipped moustache on my face and have a bulldog worry my trouser leg. Who could gloat? It was no longer funny to be a step ahead of the game. The game had turned to stark reality and was consuming the world. Gloating gave way to guilt. Why didn't I bring them all with me? I tried, but they wouldn't come. I should have tried harder. I thought of the dancers and who would make it out. I thought of what Jews and homosexuals would don a disguise and stay, and which would be caught. I thought of who would flee the country, whether persecuted or not.

The club would be gone by now. Maybe there were still shows and audiences but there would be no sparkle. Decadence and glitter walk hand in hand with free speech and they took that away. Our club, our once proud subversive lark had been turned to dust. Dust that ought to be flung to each far corner of Europe in remembrance of their entertainers. Entertainers who would never be great; entertainers that would never make it beyond cheap cracks in a Berlin basement, but each and every one there for freedom.

A tear rolled down my cheek. I touched a white-gloved hand to my face and watched the tear seep into the cotton.

In this life I had little freedom. I was back in starched whites and a bow tie, long trousers and shiny shoes, smart-cut jacket and slicked back hair. My lips curled into an expression of perfect poise and command, although of course never too superior. In this life I bowed to my audience and kept them comfortable. I watched as they ate their supper and came when they rang the bell.

Rarely valued. Sometimes free. Often happy. 

 


End file.
